


white knuckles

by ganymede_elegy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, F/M, Lyanna Lives, a lot of people live, also the others don't exist, cause i don't feel like dealing with it, tourneys & melees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganymede_elegy/pseuds/ganymede_elegy
Summary: His hands are numb and white knuckled around the grip of his bow and he tries to tell himself that he has nothing to prove. If he loses, it means nothing. If it turns out that he is a terrible shot and that deer and rabbits are simply very easy to hunt, it does not matter. He has no house to represent, no honor to defend. He is no one and it means nothing if he does poorly.His left hand checks, for the hundredth time, to see if the ribbon is still tied around his right wrist and he curses himself for it. He should've taken it off last night. Immediately, his eyes go to the crowd and it only takes him a moment to find her copper hair among the audience.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 297
Kudos: 468





	1. Chapter 1

Mother told him not to go and really, he should have listened.

But how could he _not_ go? He has been training with Arthur for nearly all of his sixteen years, but he has no idea if he is actually a capable fighter or not, since he has never been allowed to fight anyone other than Arthur. He only has mother and Arthur's word that Arthur is, in fact, a fine swordsman.

He supposes he also has father's word for it. Father used to come visit him every year on his name day, but Jon has not seen him since he was ten. He remembers mother saying that it would be very hard for father to visit now, for reasons she would never explain to Jon, only ever saying _I'll tell you when you're older_.

Well, he's older, isn't he?

Old enough to hunt their own food and sell the meat and hides to support them. Old enough to lay with one of the girls in town (though he doesn't want to think about how perhaps he hadn't been so good at that, not with the way Ygritte had laughed and said _you know nothing_ ).

Old enough to enter a tourney.

Which is what he is doing and he is trying, desperately, not to think of how angry his mother and Arthur will be if they ever find out. He loves his mother, but he doesn't understand why she will not let him go beyond their little town. For the longest time, she barely even wanted him to go into the town by himself, insisting that he stay in their cabin in the woods and she would have Arthur or herself go if they needed anything. It wasn't until Jon was eleven, the year father failed to show for his name day, in fact, that he had fought long and bloody with mother until she finally relented.

It was in town that he'd first heard of the tourney being held at Riverrun. Most royal tourneys were held in the capital, much further from Jon's home in the Neck, and though Riverrun isn't actually close, it _felt_ close.

It felt like fate, sitting in the tavern that evening and listening to the innkeep and a traveler speak of it. He had tossed and turned that night, spent the next few days agonizing over it. He had packed a bag and hidden it in the forest, skimming money from his earnings and tucking it away just in case. He wasn't going to really do it, it was just an idea. He remembers mentioning the tourney to mother, how her eyes had narrowed, immediately understanding that he wanted to enter. He remembers how she forbade him from going.

He wasn't going to, not really. It was just an idea.

But then he'd had a fight with her over something else completely – she didn't like Ygritte and he knows she has her reasons, but it made him feel like a child and the next morning, instead of going hunting, he had gone into the forest, retrieved the pack and his money, then traded for a horse in town. There was a fury inside him – at his mother for treating him like a child, for forbidding him from the tourney, for telling him which girls he could and could not see (and for other things that he hated to think about, like the way Arthur looked at his mother like she was the sun but never did anything about it, like the way father stopped showing up five years ago with no warning, like the way Ygritte would laugh at him no matter what he did).

And so, with his new horse and his anger and his dog, he set south, towards Riverrun.

* * *

Two days into his journey, he feels the first pangs of guilt.

His anger has lessened, and now all he can think about is whether mother and Arthur are worried or not. Jon had left a note with the innkeep, with explicit instructions to give it to whichever of them came looking for him first. He wonders how long that will be; this is not the first time he has vanished after a fight with his mother. A few times before, he had disappeared into the woods in a sulk, only to show up days later, exhausted and dirty and contrite. Mother would always sigh and take him in and force him into a bath and feed him a hot meal. She wouldn't ever yell at him for the times he ran away and this made him feel even worse about it (sometimes, he would see a sadness in his mother's eyes when he did this, when they fought; he could see something that she always held back. _I'll tell you when you're older_ ).

Ghost doesn't help. At night as they camp and he eats the food he had stashed in his bags, Ghost just looks at him with his calm red eyes and Jon feels like the worst son in the world.

“She can't keep me in that cabin forever,” he tells Ghost through a mouthful of dried venison. Ghost tilts his head and Jon scowls. “I'm a grown man,” he insists. Ghost doesn't seem to agree.

* * *

Jon has never seen anything as impressive as Riverrun and he wonders if all castles are like this. If this is Riverrun, what must the capital be like?

It is impressive but also very, _very_ overwhelming. There are so many people around, so many colors, so many banners with sigils and he tries to remember back to his mother's lessons on the houses of Westeros (why he had to learn these, he'll never know. He remembers saying something to Ygritte once and she had asked if he thought he was fancy or something, knowing the different houses. It turns out, most people in their town only knew the ones they needed to – the lizard-lion of House Reed and the direwolf of it's overlord, House Stark).

He's thankful that the lists are open to all who have the proper equipment, not just knights. He hadn't even considered this and he can't imagine having to turn away after making the journey down. He signs up for archery and the melee, skipping the jousts. He knows how to ride a horse, but Arthur had never taught him to use a lance and he can think of no worse way to learn than against practiced knights in front of the entire kingdom.

There are prizes for each, though the highest honor belongs to the winner of the melee, and the money also isn't something he had considered. He and mother and Arthur are not lacking, they have never put an emphasis on money. Jon can hunt well enough to support them and they need very little, most of which they can get from the forest that surrounds them and in trade from the town. The money might be nice, perhaps he would buy something pretty for his mother, but he does not need it. That isn't what he's here for.

He's jolted out of his thoughts by an eruption of laughter from a nearby tent. Jon has no tent of his own but that is alright, he's fine sleeping under the stars, so long as it does not rain. He is fine without a tent, he tells himself, and tries not to think of how poorly prepared he is. A tent would have come in handy, not just for the rain but as a better place to hide his belongings.

He does not have much – his pack, a bow, his sword, and _it_.

He shouldn't have brought it, he realizes now. At the time, when he'd packed it, it had been with all the rage inside him, an open rebellion against his mother and Arthur's instructions.

_Keep that hidden_ , Arthur had warned.

But he had not thought it through, had not understood until he arrived here how dangerous it was. A gift, given to him on his tenth name day. Father had been so proud of it, but Jon remembers his mother's horrified face. He remembers Arthur quietly telling him to _keep that hidden_ as mother took father outside and yelled. Jon remembers trying to listen, trying to hear what mother and father were talking about (they rarely spoke to each other during his visits and Jon was curious). But Arthur had led him into the bedroom and made him wrap the gift in oiled rags and then again in leathers and place it under his bed.

Not once had Arthur let him practice with it and mother had sworn she would get rid of it time and again, but never had. It was supposed to stay hidden under his bed, though at night when the others were asleep, he would get to his knees on the floor and pull it out and unwrap it. He would take it in hand and only then, in the dark of night, would he swing the sword his father had given him.

It was light in his hands, the hilt just slightly too big for his grip, the gold pommel studded with red jewels, words in an unknown language etched into the blade. It didn't feel as good in his hand as his normal sword with its familiar leather grip, but who would want plain steel when one could have _this_? Jon could never understand why mother and Arthur wanted him to keep it hidden.

It wasn't until he arrived at Riverrun that he had noticed the distinct differences in the swords that the nobles carried and the ones held by people like him. Commoners, sellswords, hedgeknights. Even actual knights had nothing as elaborate as the sword Jon's father had gifted to him and now Jon understands why mother and Arthur were so upset.

Father must have stolen the sword from some nobleman and Jon knows now that bringing it here was a mistake. If it is seen, if someone discovers it, Jon will be thrown in the dungeons of some castle or find himself at the end of a rope. It must be why mother never tried to get rid of it – how could she possibly explain how she had come into such finery?

He debates taking the sword into the forest outside of Riverrun and burying it, hiding it away, but it is a long walk and past the guards and he was lucky enough to get it in without anyone noticing. If he is caught leaving with it, they will assume he stole it here.

He even thinks that perhaps he will pry the red jewels out of the hilt and toss them in the river to make the sword less noticeable. He spends an entire night contemplating this and when he falls asleep, he dreams of rubies floating down the Trident.

* * *

The morning of the first day of the tourney dawns clear. In the distance, he can hear the horns and the pageantry of the opening ceremonies (it wasn't until Jon arrived that he learned that the tourney was being held to celebrate the fifth year of the King's reign).

He spends the morning watching the camp. The men are drinking and eating, many of them sitting in groups and laughing together. Only a few practice and Jon supposes those are the ones he should watch out for. Mostly, though, they seem to be here to have a good time, at least the men in his area. Jon guesses the actual knights and noblemen likely take this whole thing far more seriously, battling for house or personal glory, but the men he is camped with are all commoners. He watches and he studies, mostly because he has never met anyone outside of his town before and he is fascinated by the different clothing and accents, even languages. It seems that there are even some contestants from across the Narrow Sea.

He initially thinks it is one of these Essosi men that he sees hurrying through the camp in a cloak with the hood pulled up, but on second look, it isn't a man at all. Without thinking, Jon stands from where he had been sitting, polishing his sword (the plain one, the one he uses with Arthur, not the gift).

The girl looks around like she is lost and she moves quickly; it looks as though she is trying not to be seen and Jon thinks this is wise. From even the quick glimpse he'd seen of her, he could tell she was beautiful and he can only worry that being in a camp like this will be dangerous for her and he doesn't know why she is here to begin with. If she were one of the camp followers, the women who sell themselves, she would not be trying to hide, he thinks. No, those women walk through camp with more courage than Jon has ever had in his entire life. The girl in the cloak walks like she does not belong here.

He follows her and tries to rationalize that he is simply looking out for her and not that he wants to see if her eyes had really been as blue as he thinks or if it was just a trick of the sun. His instincts turn out to be right only a short time later when some men sitting around a cookfire notice her and one of them stands in her way. Jon can hear them telling her to join them, with mocking laughter and smiles that tell Jon exactly what they are thinking.

Jon watches the girl try to move away but one of the men grabs her arm and this is when he steps forward and says “there you are!”

Both the girl and the man turn to look at him and Jon keeps his eyes fixed on the girl, hoping she plays along.

“I told you not to wander,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” the girl's voice is low and Jon can hear the hesitance, like she's not sure if she is doing the right thing, “I got quite bored and decided to go for a walk.”

Her voice is Northern, but not the same accent as the men and women from his village. No, her words seem more careful, her accent less harsh. She almost sounds like his mother, he thinks.

“Get your hand off my sister,” Jon says to the man with his hand still on her arm. Jon's own hand goes to the hilt of his sword in warning and he hears the girl draw in a low, sharp breath.

The man sizes him up for much too long before apparently deciding it isn't worth it and letting go and Jon tries not to visibly show his relief. It is one thing to sign up to fight in the melee, it is another to get into a fight out here in the camp; a _real_ fight. He knows men can die in the melee, but it feels different.

When the man sits down, Jon takes the girl's other arm in a light hold that she could easily break, should she choose to. He pulls her away, through the crowd and back towards his own little spot, his only focus is getting back to Ghost.

“Thank you,” the girl says as she lets herself be pulled along. Jon simply grunts in reply so that he does not point out how stupid it was for her to come here; he assumes she realizes that already and saying it will only serve to make her feel worse.

When they reach the place where he has set up his meager camp, he whistles for Ghost.

“Oh!” the girl says and he finally turns to look at her and sure enough, she's just as beautiful as he thought and it seems like her eyes really _are_ that blue. “Can I pet him?”

“I suppose,” he shrugs, though he knows he needs to get her out of here. She doesn't seem to care, because she sinks to the ground and holds out her hand and Ghost happily trots forward for attention.

Jon watches as Ghost (the dog he has raised, his hunting companion who he has seen bring down any number of wild game) practically turns into a puppy again, flopping onto his back and wriggling around in the dirt as the girl laughs and rubs his belly.

“Some guard dog you are,” Jon mutters to himself but the girl hears him and then she is turning her smile up to him and Jon thinks perhaps Ghost isn't so wrong (he thinks if she asked, Jon would lay on his back in the dirt just for the chance that she would touch him). He clears his throat and says “where are you staying? You should get back.”

The girl frowns and then stands. “I was trying to find my sister,” she looks around as though her sister will be right behind her. “She ran away.”

“And you think your sister would be in the camps?”

“Well,” the girl worries her bottom lip with her teeth and Jon tries very hard not to stare at it. “She wants to join the tourney.”

“Ah.”

The girl sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I _told_ her they don't allow girls and anyway, she's just a child! And now she's run off and if I don't find her, father is never going to bring us South again!”

“Well, I don't think you walking around by yourself is the best way to go about it,” Jon points out gently, sensing that she is, perhaps, on the verge of tears. He is unfamiliar with crying; mother doesn't, Ygritte never did. In fact, of all the people he knows, Jon thinks he has cried more than all of them combined (though always alone, hidden in the forest or with his face pressed deep into his pillow). “Let me take you back or I'll spend the whole day worrying.”

This brings a small smile back to her face and she sniffs and nods her consent. By this time, he does not need to ask where she is staying, he understands that she is a Lady. The fine cut of her cloak, the glimpses of her soft slippered feet peeking out from under it as she walked, the delicate silver chain of the necklace he can see disappearing beneath the collar of it.

They walk towards the tourney ground in relative silence; he will leave her within sight of the guards, she will be safe near her own kind. When he sees the guards with a leaping trout on their shields, he almost sighs in relief.

“Thank you, Ser...” she trails off and looks up at him expectantly.

“Not a Ser,” he shrugs.

“Oh,” she breathes, and then, “of course, you're Northern, how silly of me. Which house do you belong to?”

He wishes she would just leave well enough alone as he says, “none, my lady. I'm just Jon. Jon Snow.”

“Oh,” she says again and if he didn't know better, he would say she almost sounds disappointed. “Will you be in the lists?”

“Archery and the melee, my lady.”

“I hear the melee has the best prizes,” she offers and Jon thinks she is grasping for things to say and once again he wishes she would leave instead of feeling obligated to speak to him when she clearly does not want to.

“I suppose.”

“Are you not fighting for the prize? What then?”

He almost tells her that it is, in fact, for the prize, but she looks genuinely curious and so after a moment he tells her the truth. “Just to see if I can.”

She seems to contemplate this and then nods. “Well, I shall look for you, Jon Snow.” He can only nod in acknowledgment and he does not say what he is actually thinking, which is that she will forget about him the moment she steps back into her world.

She turns to go, takes two steps forward, then stops, turns around to look at him again, and walks back. Her teeth are worrying her bottom lip again and Jon cannot stop looking at it. Hesitantly, she reaches into her hood and pulls out a long, thick braid of copper hair and she unties a blue ribbon from the end of it (her braid starts to unravel and just like with her lips, Jon cannot take his eyes off of it).

“Here,” she looks around quickly before reaching down to grab his arm and she pulls it up and then begins to tie the ribbon around his wrist as Jon stares dumbly at her. “For luck.” When she is done, she begins walking away again, only to stop and turn for a second time. Instead of coming back, though, she says as quietly as she can, “the winner of the melee gets to choose the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

She does not say anything else and instead turns around and hurries back inside the gates of Riverrun and Jon and Ghost return to his campsite and he tries not to think about her lips or her hair or her eyes for the rest of the day and that night, he dreams of the forests near his home and of wolves howling in the distance.

* * *

Jon's nerves nearly threaten to choke him as he stands alongside dozens of other men in the tourney grounds. At a distance, he can see the archery targets and the weight of his quiver feels heavy on his back. His hands are numb and white knuckled around the grip of his bow and he tries to tell himself that he has nothing to prove. If he loses, it means nothing. If it turns out that he is a terrible shot and that deer and rabbits are simply very easy to hunt, it does not matter. He has no house to represent, no honor to defend. He is no one and it means nothing if he does poorly.

His left hand checks, for the hundredth time, to see if the ribbon is still tied around his right wrist and he curses himself for it. He should've taken it off last night.

Immediately, his eyes go to the crowd and it only takes him a moment to find her copper hair among the audience. She is sat next to a man with Northern coloring who must be her father. On the other side of her sits a young girl with her arms crossed and what Jon thinks is a pout, though he can't quite tell from this distance. It must be the sister and it does not look like she is happy to have been found (Jon feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the thought). The girl with the copper hair seems to be studying the archers and he ducks his head down, though he knows she is not looking for _him_. And even if she were, why would it matter? He has nothing to prove to her.

The King is announced, but Jon barely hears it and he bows without a thought with the rest of the men. His eyes are not on the King.

* * *

The first round takes ages, ten men at a time lined up to fire at the ranges set close. To his relief, he hits dead center and passes to the next round.

With each target he hits, with each satisfying _twang_ of the bowstring and _thump_ of the arrow into the center of the target, his confidence grows. Something else blooms in his chest that feels a lot like satisfaction. With every man that is disqualified, with every round he passes, he feels vindicated.

_See_ , he thinks and he wishes with a rush of anger that his mother were here to see this, to see that he is _something_ (shame immediately grips at him after and he knows he should not be so petty).

He does not dare to look up at the stands, he keeps his eyes on the targets and wills himself not to think of the ribbon tied around his wrist that feels like it has somehow gotten tighter.

At last there are three left and Jon tries to force his heart to calm and he wonders what the Westrosi nobles think of them – two commoners and an exiled Summer Isle prince.

Jalabhar Xho is the first to take his shot this round from a hundred paces and his arrow hits the target, but closer to the edge than the center, and Jon's heart feels like it is going to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth. Next to him, Anguy from the Dornish Marshes lifts his bow and Jon can see the boy's chest rise and fall steadily, his arms stretched tight, and he looses and his arrow hits just left of center. Distantly, Jon can hear the roaring of the crowd but he cannot focus on them.

It is his shot now and he knows, as he faces the target, that he has never shot from this distance before. He tries to breathe steadily, closes his eyes and reopens them to clear his vision. He is in the forest, by himself. The target is an elk and if he hits it just right, the pelt will earn him enough at the tanner to buy some of those cakes he sees in the baker's window, but has never allowed himself to purchase.

He pulls back on the string, arm muscles screaming in protest and he looses his arrow and watches as it swings wide and only clips the edge of the target, landing somewhere off to the side.

It isn't until he feels a hand clap his shoulder that he jolts out of his daze and realizes he'd been staring at the target he missed.

“Well shot,” Jalabhar Xho is saying, one massive hand still resting on Jon's shoulder.

“Aye,” Jon breathes, collecting himself. “And you.”

He has just enough time to congratulate Anguy before two squires are running over and directing them across the field towards the King's box. Jon can't help it, his eyes go to the left, to where she is sitting, and he finds her staring at him ( _them_ , he corrects) with her hands clasped to her heart. He is too far to see the expression on her face and he thinks this is a good thing, he doesn't think he could bear her disappointment ( _as if she cares about a commoner like him_ ).

When he hears the King begin to speak, he tears his gaze from her and towards the royal box and any thought of the girl with the copper hair slips from his mind. For a moment his vision narrows, going dark around the edges, and he thinks this time he really will faint.

Because there, standing in the royal box with a crown atop his head and a cloak emblazoned with a three headed dragon, is his father.

_The King._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot for now. Anyone want more of Jon is a secret prince and has a lot of daddy issues and also Sansa is 100% into commoner Jon even though it can Never Be? (I'm sure this idea has been done to death but oh well)


	2. Chapter 2

His fury carries him all the way from the tourney grounds back to his camp.

Father had not recognized him, had barely reacted to his name, had barely looked at the commoner standing in front of the royal box.

_Of course_ , he thinks, kneeling down into the dirt where Ghost stands guard. Father has not seen him since he was a boy of ten; a child with nothing but scrawny limbs and round cheeks. And _Jon Snow_. He wonders if mother picked that name for it's simplicity, for it's prevalence. How many bastards in the North have his name?

For a moment it feels as though someone has reached into his chest and gripped his heart.

_Mother_.

Did she know? She must have known. Arthur must have known.

_I'll tell you when you're older_.

Jon has never felt this angry before, it is nothing like the times he would fight with mother and disappear for days on end. It is nothing like when he came south for the tourney. This is new, burning so hot he barely notices anything around him – the men who try to speak with him about his placement, Ghost nosing at his shoulder, even his aching arms and shoulders. None of it matters, he is filled with a new kind of rage and he wonders if it has anything to do with the dragon inside him.

* * *

The jousts last three days.

In the distance, Jon can hear the pounding of hooves, the sharp _crack_ of lance against shield, the roar of the crowds; the louder the cheers, the bloodier the match, he assumes.

The white hot burn of his anger has condensed into something cold and hard in his chest.

What he should do is leave; pack his things, get on his horse and ride North. He can ask questions of mother and Arthur, get his answers there, take his rage out on them, but he doesn't.

Instead he stays.

* * *

He is invited to the cookfires of the other men now, seeming to have earned some bit of respect from them. Anguy asks him questions of where he learned to shoot and Jon thinks, in another life, perhaps they could have been friends. Instead, Jon is too preoccupied with his own thoughts to make friends with the men he eats with; he mostly stays silent and he is thankful they let him.

During the days he stretches out his muscles, the fatigue fading from them. He carefully cuts an old shirt and his leather jerkin into strips and as the sun fades and the men around him get drunk and careless, he pulls out the gift and slowly wraps the cloth strips around the gold pommel and guard; the leather he winds around the grip. He is finally satisfied that upon casual glance, if one does not look closely at the blade, at the words in an unknown language etched into it, the gift looks like any other common sword.

At night he lays awake and stares at the sky and tries to remember the constellations his mother had taught him, but he cannot find them no matter how hard he looks. He cannot tell if he has simply forgotten them or if the sky is somehow different in the South. Or perhaps he never knew them at all.

* * *

This time, standing on the field, he does not look to the stands for a glimpse of copper hair. Instead he watches the royal box closely and when the King is announced, he bows with all the other men, just as he had before.

The King arrives with a group and Jon can see three others that have the same silver hair as father. Jon does not know who any of them are and he feels an overwhelming desire to laugh. Of all the things his mother taught him – houses and sigils and the kingdoms – there is a gap in his knowledge that he never noticed. He knows absolutely nothing about the royal family save their name and sigil and he cannot decide if he should laugh or cry or scream.

He can feel his hand clenched too tight around the hilt of his sword as the King signals the start of the melee.

* * *

It is chaos.

He has only ever fought one opponent at a time, only ever Arthur.

It has never been like this, with nearly fifty men moving around him, the clang of steel on steel, the shouts and screams, the roar of the crowd.

Jon hears none of it over the pounding of his own heart as he parries and dodges and moves through the mass of bodies. He feels as though he should be down already, men coming at him from all sides, but he is not and he thinks back to the clearing in the forest where Arthur would tie a cloth around his eyes, blinding him, forcing him to _feel_ where the strikes were coming from rather than seeing. All the times Arthur had struck him from behind with the blunted training sword, all the times he had been knocked to the ground. Every bruise, every cut and scrape, every _get up, do it again._

It seems Arthur was, in fact, a fine swordsman and Jon feels a new surge of anger.

It is the commoners that fall first, poorly trained and with no real chance. Then there are the men he can tell are knights or even nobles, their movements more practiced and precise, but as time goes on and the field clears out, Jon knows he is better than them and this only serves to fuel his rage. He came here to prove himself but he understands now that the real swordsmen are not here; no, this is a place for lesser knights and nobles to seek glory, for hedgeknights looking to gain the eye of a patron, for commoners desperate for the prize money.

The golden sword in his hand is not as familiar as his plain one, but still he is _better,_ and even when there are still a dozen men left, he knows who his last two opponents will be – a giant of a man with a half scarred face and another with a sword on fire.

When it is down to four and Jon fells his opponent, he turns in time to see the man with the blazing sword laugh wildly and swing at the giant. To Jon's surprise, the giant seems to freeze and is easily disarmed and knocked to the ground and then it is just Jon and the man with the fire.

As they meet, Jon realizes that the man himself is only a middling swordsman and that his success is because of the sword, because of the fear it brings. He is relying on fear to win, but there is no way for him to know that Jon has none, not now. Any fear Jon may have felt has been consumed by anger, has been burned up and wrung out.

And so he steps forward and he can see the surprise on the other man's face and though Jon feels the heat of the flames, can feel it stinging the skin of his face and his hand, he comes in close and snakes his sword around the other blade and with one final twist (just the way Arthur had made him practice time and again), he sends the blazing sword flying.

He hears nothing of the crowd, he doesn't see where the other sword lands, he simply steps back and places the tip of his sword against the man's throat and waits. The man gives him a grin and kneels to the ground.

It's only then that he becomes aware of his own body, of the ache in his shoulders and arms, the strain of his lungs, the sweat tricking down his spine and stinging his eyes and sticking his shirt to his skin, the furious pounding of his heart.

With trembling hands, he wipes the blade of his sword on the cleanest part of his shirt and sheathes it, then extends a hand to help the man up.

“Thoros,” the man says, still grinning, as if he cares nothing for the win and only for the fight itself.

Jon just nods, not trusting his own voice, and in the corner of his vision he can see two squires running onto the field. One goes to gather the giant of a man who had placed third and the other squire is carrying what appears to be a small circle of woven flowers.

“Come,” Thoros slaps a hand on Jon's back and nods towards the royal box. “Get your prize.”

His walk to the box is slow and with his hands still shaking, he reaches down and begins to untie the strips of cloth and leather from the hilt of his sword, letting them drop to the dirt below as he goes. He is unsure what his plan is, he doesn't have one. Part of him wants to say nothing, part of him wants to unsheathe his sword and throw it straight into the royal box.

The giant man meets them near the front and he looks furious at his defeat and up close, Jon can better see the scarring; he has seen burn scars before, though none so extensive and he understands why the man fell so easily before Thoros. Had it not been for the fire, Jon is sure the giant could have beaten Thoros soundly and as he looks him over, Jon wonders if _he_ would have been able to take him. It seems pure luck that Thoros faced him first.

This close, he can see the royal family better and he stares at his father, though father does not seem to notice and Jon feels something feral try to claw it's way up his throat. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword and a few of the nobles seem to notice the motion – a few of the knights in white cloaks do as well and Jon can see a subtle shift in the ones near the King as their hands stray to their own swords.

He wants to laugh - is he such a threat? What must they see on his face to make them think he will attack the King? Do they see his anger? His hatred? Do they see the years of lies and betrayal?

“That's quite the sword.”

To his surprise, it is a woman's voice, and Jon turns his gaze slightly to the right, to a woman sitting just outside the royal box with golden hair in some sort of elaborate Southron style and the first thing Jon thinks is that she would be beautiful if her mouth weren't twisted in a sneer. Next to her is a man with a large belly and a full beard and the red nose of a perpetual drinker.

“Where did you get that sword, boy?” the woman continues, leaning forward, and a few things happen in rapid succession after that.

The first is that all the nobles within hearing distance lean forward to look at the sword, at the gleaming gold and the rubies that glint in the sun. The second is that some other noble further off says “don't be sour just because your father's dog lost.” And the third is that the King himself looks at the sword and Jon watches his mouth set into a frown and _still_ there is no real recognition.

Jon is sure he is not meant to actually answer, but he is reckless in his fury and so he says “it was a gift,” his voice loud enough to reach the stands. It is an answer to the woman, but his eyes never leave the King.

There is more talking, all the nobles seem to have some sort of opinion and Jon has noticed that the squire holding the ring of flowers has stalled in his movements, seeming unsure what he should do in the confusion.

“Clearly it was stolen,” the golden haired woman says over the murmur of the others, turning towards the King. “He is a thief.”

The King nods in Jon's direction and says “let's see this sword,” and a strange mix of fear and triumph swirls through Jon's chest.

He unsheathes the sword and steps forward and holds it by the blade up towards the box. One of the white-cloaked knights steps forward and takes it and holds it for the King to inspect and Jon watches the moment his father realizes.

Father seems to freeze, his shoulders tensing, and slowly he turns back and his eyes lock on Jon.

“What did you say your name was?”

Jon cannot tell what father is thinking – his voice is steady and clear and his face is impassive. If not for the stiffness of his shoulders, Jon would begin to doubt.

“Jon Snow.”

_A bastard_ , he thinks he hears, though he doesn't know from who, he isn't looking at anyone else.

“A thief,” the woman says again. “Arrest him.”

“Oh, are you the Queen now, Lady Baratheon?” a voice drawls, and Jon takes a moment to move his gaze to a boy about his age, one of the silver haired Targaryens.

Jon's eyes move back to the King, who is leaned over and whispering something to one of the white cloaks.

“I'm sure we'll get this all sorted,” the King says and Jon hates him for the steadiness of his voice. “Lancel, please take him back.”

One of the squires, the one not holding the flowers, darts forward and directs Jon towards a small door in the wooden fence separating the tourney ground from the stands and Jon follows with a sort of numb hollowness. He is met by the white cloaked knight and led further, out of the stands, through the gates, and into the castle of Riverrun itself. A week ago, he would have been looking around in awe, taking in all the details of the castle gates, of the people coming and going, but now he sees none of it. He is placed in a small room and the white cloak stays there with him, standing perfectly straight and silent and Jon hates him, too.

He isn't sure what he thought would happen. Did he think father would send him to the dungeons? Announce to the crowd that Jon was his son? Clearly neither of those happened, though he supposes there is still time for a death sentence.

* * *

Jon spends what feels like days pacing the small room with the white cloaked knight standing, unmoving, by the door. On a wooden table in the middle lays the sword and it does nothing to calm Jon's anger that the knight appears to have no concern that Jon will reach for it and try to attack.

When a knock comes, he stops pacing, his heart slamming against his ribs as the knight opens the door and he hears a voice, rough and low, and then the knight is opening the door further and Jon wants to scream when it is not father that walks in.

For a moment he stares at the man – he has seen him before and it takes a few seconds to remember him sitting next to the girl with copper hair. The reminder of her makes his knees feel weak; it feels like _years_ have gone by since he was walking her back to the guards, since she tied a ribbon around his wrist and without thinking, his left hand checks to find it still there.

The man, the _Lord_ , seems wary, and with a sinking feeling, Jon notices the silver direwolf pin on his cloak. He isn't just any Lord, he is Lord Stark, Warden of the North.

Lord Stark studies Jon for a while before his eyes move to the sword on the table. With a frown, he walks over and looks at it, but Jon sees no recognition in his eyes.

There is silence in the room as Lord Stark seems to think and Jon finds himself being studied more than the sword.

“Jon Snow,” Lord Stark says slowly and Jon isn't sure if it is a question or not and so he simply nods. For some reason, all of his anger and hatred have drained out of him in front of this man; there is something steady and calming and familiar about his presence, though Jon does not know why. “You're Northern.” Again, Jon isn't sure if he is meant to answer, so he nods again. There is something in Lord Stark's gaze that is appraising, like he is trying to figure Jon out and Jon finds himself shifting on his feet, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Lord Stark looks to the white cloak as if for answers, but the white cloak does not even acknowledge him and Lord Stark's mouth twists into a frown.

“It seems strange,” he says, “that I should be asked to come here simply because a thief is Northern. That sword belongs to none of my bannermen.” Lord Stark eyes the sword again with a sort of disdain, as if the gold and rubies offend him. “Where did you say you got it?”

Lord Stark's eyes are on him and Jon meets them and sees that they are grey, just like his own. _The look of the North_ , he remembers his mother saying once. _You have the look of the North_.

Jon does not know if father wants him to keep this a secret but he also finds that he does not care and so he says “it was a gift from my father.”

To Jon's surprise, Lord Stark does not ask who his father is or how his father obtained the sword. Instead, with an expression that Jon cannot interpret, he asks “what is your mother's name?”

_Mother._

_What has he done?_

There is a sudden, icy fear that trickles down his spine. He had been so angry, so intent on punishing his father that he hadn't thought about what this would mean for his mother. What will happen to her? Will she be in trouble for hiding a royal bastard? Will father protect her? And what of Arthur, who has been more a father to him than the King ever was?

He is saved from having to answer by another knock on the door and this time, it is the King who enters. There is a moment of tension between the King and Lord Stark that Jon can feel like a physical presence before the King sends the white cloak outside. The knight hesitates, but the King sends him out anyway.

“I assume you know why I asked you here,” father says once the door is closed, but this is directed at Lord Stark.

“I do not, your Grace,” Lord Stark says, his eyes darting from the King, to the sword, to Jon. “Though I am beginning to suspect.”

Father sighs wearily, running a hand over his face and suddenly he looks like the father Jon remembers from his childhood. Not a King, not a Targaryen. Just father, with his daring smiles and his easy laugh and the small moments of sadness whenever he looked at mother.

“Your father never told you?” the King asks and Jon wants to remind them that he is still _here_. They are speaking as though he isn't.

“No, though on his deathbed, he said...” Lord Stark trails off, as though things are beginning to come together in his head. “He said that it was not her body in the crypts, but I thought that was just his memory failing.”

“You have to understand,” father says, “it had to stay a secret. If Robert found out, Dorne, my _father_... you remember what he was like.”

“I do,” Lord Stark says and there is an anger in his voice now and the look he gives father is one of disgust and Jon wonders at this until he realizes that Lord Stark is not speaking to the _King_ , but rather the man himself. Lord Stark falters then and says “and Brandon?”

“When they found us, he attacked me,” father says, his shoulders slumped. “Ser Gerold... it happened quickly.”

“But Lyanna is alive?”

Father's face hardens and he nods. “I need to go back,” father says, standing straight again and Jon watches his King mask slip back on. “I brought you here because I need you to take him. Find him a room, keep him with you, and most of all, keep it _quiet_. We will talk later.”

With that, the King sweeps out of the room and Jon and Lord Stark are left in silence. Neither of them speak; Lord Stark appears to be thinking and Jon is loathe to interrupt him. He should want to ask a thousand questions but instead his mind is blank.

_But Lyanna is alive?_

Finally, Lord Stark turns and says “you'll come with me.”

“Wait,” Jon says as Lord Stark moves to the door. When he turns back, he seems to brace himself for the questions Jon should be asking, but instead Jon says “my dog. He's out in the camp. He's waiting for me.”

For a moment Lord Stark stares at him and then there's a softening to his face, a warmth in his eyes and he says “I'll send someone to fetch him.”

“He won't go with anyone but me.” Jon is unsure why he is arguing, Ghost will be fine without him, but Jon isn't so sure he'll be fine without Ghost.

“I have a royal order not to let you out of my sight,” Lord Stark says, though by the way he says it, Jon thinks Lord Stark does not care much for the royal part. “How do I know you wouldn't just run away?”

“You'll have to trust me,” Jon says and he watches Lord Starks mouth twitch as though he is going to smile, but it disappears as Jon continues. “No one will notice me, I'm not anyone.”

Lord Stark seems to contemplate this and Jon is reminded of the girl with the copper hair; it is the same tilt of the head, the same set to the mouth.

“You'll go with Jory,” he says finally and holds up a hand when Jon opens his mouth to argue. “They won't let you back in the gates otherwise.” Jon nods in defeat and Lord Stark moves to the door, then stops. “Do you want me to have the sword sent to your room?”

Jon turns to look at the sword and then he is ten years old again, back in their cabin in the forest, sitting at the little table in the kitchen that father has just placed a package on. Jon remembers his joy, untying the wrapping with hands too excited to be steady, fumbling with the ties in his haste. He remembers staring down at the gift in wonder, imagining fighting dragons and saving damsels with his golden sword. (He remembers his mother's pale face, the disappointment in Arthur's eyes, father's reckless smile.)

“No,” is all he says and Lord Stark simply nods and does not ask for an explanation and they leave it behind.

* * *

He and Jory do not speak as he gathers his things from the camp, though Jory does give Ghost's head a pet when he thinks Jon isn't looking.

Just like with Lord Stark, there's something calming and familiar about Jory, a Northern quietness here in the middle of a Southron storm and Jon suddenly aches for home; for his bed and the smell of mother's cooking and the humming sway of ancient trees in the wind. If he had only gone back, he could have pretended he never saw father, he could pretend he doesn't know. He could have shown up at the door, dirty and tired and contrite and mother would have taken him in and fed him and they would have never said a word about it.

Surely they must have gotten his message by now, he thinks as he and Jory trudge back to the gates of Riverrun. Would she believe him? That he simply needed some time alone? Or would she know that he had come to the tourney?

Jory leads him to a different part of the castle and Lord Stark is waiting and shows him to a room that Jon thinks might be bigger than their entire cabin (he thinks the bed in the center of it is bigger than their kitchen). He sets his things down on a large table and then stands in the room with Lord Stark staring at him.

Jon knows he should be asking questions but his anger has run out; his throat is dry, his tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth. He is thankful when a servant appears with a tray of food and Lord Stark gestures at it. As if finally given permission, Jon's stomach rumbles and he realizes he has not eaten all day and he nearly falls into a chair and begins to eat. It is only after he has consumed nearly the entire bowl of stew that he realizes that Lord Stark is still standing near the door, watching him, and Jon is suddenly aware that he is eating like a wild thing (and he remembers his mother tutting over him and his poor manners, smiling as Jon ducked and dodged the cloth she would try to wipe at his face with).

He does not know what to do with Lord Stark's eyes on him and so he tears a chunk of chicken apart and feeds it to Ghost, who has sat at Jon's feet with his side pressed against Jon's leg as though he knows he is the only thing tethering Jon to the ground.

“What's his name?” Lord Stark asks.

“Ghost,” Jon says once he is sure he is not speaking with his mouth full, trying to remember his mother's halfhearted lessons on manners and there it is again, a small smile that disappears just as quickly from Lord Stark's face.

When it seems Lord Stark will not speak again, Jon goes back to eating. After the melee and everything with father, the stew was not enough, it feels as though there is an endless pit in his stomach, something hollow and unfillable.

After a while, Jon has finished everything on the tray and he turns to find Lord Stark sitting on the edge of the bed, a faraway look in his eyes and Jon does not know what to do or say and so they sit in silence until finally Lord Stark clears his throat.

“I'm going to tell you a story,” he says, his voice solemn and Northern and it reminds Jon of crackling fires and the smell of pine. “When I was a boy, not much older than you, my sister went missing. I loved my sister very much, everyone did. She was beautiful and wild and reckless, like the North itself. My father and brother had gotten word that she was with the crown Prince, though no one knew why and no one could quite believe it. You see, the Prince was married and my sister was betrothed to another. And so I was left behind – there must always be a Stark in Winterfell – and my father and brother went south. I did not hear from them for moons and when my father finally returned, he brought two bodies back with him. They had found my sister, but a Southron fever had taken her and my brother. I wasn't even allowed near their bodies, no one was, in case the sickness lingered. They were buried in the crypts and my father was never the same again. Years later, when he was dying, he brought me to his side and told me that my sister was not in the crypts. I didn't believe him, at the time.”

For a while there is silence again but Jon already knows, he understands.

_But Lyanna is alive?_

“I don't have any answers for you,” Lord Stark says. “But if you have something to ask, I will try.”

There is nothing. There should be, a thousand questions he should be asking, but he has _nothing_.

Lord Stark seems to understand, he does not push. Instead he stands and says “I'll have someone bring you some clothes. It doesn't look like you packed much.” He eyes Jon's small cluster of belongings and Jon can only nod. “Get some sleep and if you need anything, ask one of my guards. They'll come get me.”

Just as Lord Stark is about to leave, he suddenly stops and turns, his eyes full of something that looks both like hope and sorrow. “Your mother, is she happy?”

Jon knows he should say yes, that is what Lord Stark wants to hear. But now that he knows, now that he looks back, he can see things sliding into place. The way mother would sometimes get lost, staring out the back window, hands frozen in the middle of washing dishes. The way she would smile but it would seem sad when Jon would ask when father was coming back. The times she would lock herself away in her room for hours, how Arthur would avoid Jon's questions and take him out to train instead.

Is mother happy?

“I don't know.”

* * *

The bed they have given him is softer than anything he has ever slept on and he tosses and turns. There are no sounds of the forest to lull him to sleep, not even the constant noise of the camp that he has grown used to. It is a strange sort of silence and Jon wishes there was something to drown out the thoughts in his head.

After a while, he gives up and pulls a few blankets and one of the pillows off the bed and makes a sleeping spot on the floor and he finally falls asleep with his face buried in Ghost's thick fur and that night he does not dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (guys I'm a little overwhelmed at the response to the first part and I love love love you all but now I'm worried this is gonna be a real disappointment because I am not good at exposition and definitely not at action and I know I didn't explain anything and Sansa isn't in this and I'm sorry)
> 
> (also let me tell you the struggles of trying to research melees because you get a lot of results about smash bros like no that is not what I need Jon is not hitting anyone over the head with a giant hammer)


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes just as Ghost does, up and alert mere moments before the pounding on the door starts.

He wonders if it is a guard, wonders if father has decided to pretend he is no one but a thief, wonders if when he opens that door, he will be taken to the dungeons. He steels himself and opens it anyway and is met with the top of a head. He has to look down and he sees a girl nearly a head shorter than him and when he looks at her, he can see the grey eyes and the dark hair. _The look of the North_. She must be Lord Stark's daughter.

“So you're the one who took my room,” the girl says, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “I had to sleep in _Sansa's_ room.”

“Sorry,” he says, as if it were any choice of his (as if he had any idea that he had taken _anyone's_ room). He debates telling her he would have rather slept outside under the stars, but he's not sure she would believe him.

After a moment or two of scowling, something changes in her face and she looks him over like she's seeing him for the first time and she says, “you won the tourney. The thief.”

“Yes,” he says, and then, “well, no. Yes I won the tourney, no I'm not a thief.”

“Where'd you learn to fight like that? Are you a knight? Where did you get the sword if you didn't steal it? I knew Cersei was wrong, she's awful.”

Her questions come rapid fire and Jon isn't sure how to respond to them or what he should and should not say. Clearly Lord Stark hasn't told her anything yet and Jon isn't surprised. Lord Stark is likely unclear what the King wants him to say, everything yesterday had happened so quickly.

“Joffrey's even worse,” the girl is still speaking and Jon has lost all sense of who she is talking about. “Tommen and Myrcella are fine, I suppose, if you like that sort, but Joffrey is just _awful_.”

Then her expression changes again into a sort of smile, something almost predatory, and Jon feels distinctly uncomfortable to be the focus of it. She's a small slip of a thing, but somehow, he is terrified of what that look means.

To his relief, she turns away and aims the smile down the hall and yells, “Sansa! Look who's here! It's your Florian thief!”

Jon isn't sure what a _Florian_ is, and he again starts to protest that he is not, in fact, a thief, when the door down the hall opens and the girl with copper hair steps out, a frown on her face.

“Arya, stop shouting, if Septa Mordane hears you... oh.”

There's a moment of silence in the hall and Jon wishes he weren't still in his nighshirt and breeches with his feet bare and hair still mussed by sleep.

“Sansa was _so_ upset you didn't name her Queen of Love and Beauty,” the dark haired girl – Arya – says, still with that predatory smile on her face. “Cried all night about it.”

“I did not!” the girl with copper hair whispers furiously ( _Sansa_ , he thinks, he wants to test the name out on his tongue but he does not). He knows he is staring at her, but he cannot look away from the red flush that creeps up her neck, the way she pulls her robe tighter across her front, clutching the edges together in a fist near the base of her throat. He watches her other hand pull her unbound hair over her shoulder, her fingers combing through it, though he thinks she does not realize she's doing it.

He is saved from having to answer (saved from having to ask what the Queen of Love and Beauty even is, he still is not sure) by Jory's arrival in the hall. Jory seems to take in the scene and Jon hears a small sigh escape the man before he says, “girls, back in your room, stop bothering the poor boy.”

Jon wants to protest that he is no _boy_ , but he has no chance as the two girls begin to talk over each other – Arya arguing that no one was bothering him and Sansa insisting that it was all Arya's fault, and Jon watches as Jory lets out another, larger, sigh and close his eyes for a moment and Jon wonders how often this happens.

He does not have brothers and sisters of his own, but he has known siblings from the village and had always been envious of them, of their closeness even when they were fighting. Jon has always been alone and he feels a new sting of betrayal as he remembers that his mother has kept him from this – he has _cousins_. And thinking back to the royal box, to the other silver haired Targaryens, he wonders if he _does_ have siblings (surely a King would have heirs).

When Jory tells the girls again to return to their rooms and threatens them with whatever a _Septa Mordane_ is, Sansa scurries back in without question and even Arya goes, though she grumbles the entire way.

“You get used to it,” Jory shrugs as the door closes behind the girls and there's a strange swirl of confusion and excitement in Jon's stomach at the thought. Do they mean to keep him? Or is it just something Jory would say to anyone?

“Is Lord Stark-” he begins, but then closes his mouth because he is not sure what he wants to ask. _Is Lord Stark coming to speak with me? Is Lord Stark sending me away?_

“Lord Stark has a meeting with the King soon,” Jory says, hesitance in his voice, and Jon wonders how much Lord Stark told him. Surely not the truth, but Jon suspects Jory must understand that the King is involved with Jon's presence here.

“Am I... do they want me there?”

Another hesitation, before Jory shakes his head. “No, they have not called for you. I'm to see that you are fed and that you stay in your room.”

Jon swallows against the sudden, bitter lump in his throat and clenches his hands at his side so that he does not do anything impulsive. They mean to speak without him, to decide his fate without him. They mean to discuss his mother and his life and his future without him, as though he has no say, as though his wants do not matter.

_What do you even want?_

He came here looking to prove himself and he has found more than he had bargained for. He does not know what he wants. He wants nothing. He wants everything.

Does he want father to take him to King's Landing – dress him in silks and crown him a prince and parade him through the court as his legitimate son?

Does he want to go home – go back to their cabin in the woods and pretend this never happened, alone with the knowledge that his family is out there?

He wants both. He wants neither. He wants to run away, head to the coast and take a boat across the Narrow Sea and visit lands he's only read of and not be Jon Snow at all anymore.

There is still an anger inside him, but it is a dull, throbbing anger; he thinks he has no room left for the sharp fury that has raged through him for days. He is tired, and so he does not fight with Jory, he nods and goes back into his room and when a servant comes with a wash basin, he cleans himself up. He dresses in the clothes and eats the food they bring him and he waits and waits and waits for his fate to be decided for him.

When a knock comes, he feels bile rise in his throat and he opens the door not to father or Lord Stark, but to a boy his age with silver hair just like father. Jon remembers him – the one who had spoken at the tourney, though Jon had paid him little attention at the time.

For a moment they stand, neither of them speaking, until Jon hears someone clear their throat and he realizes Jory is standing behind the Targaryen. “Jon,” he says, “this is Prince Aegon.”

The Prince waits until Jon realizes he is meant to invite him in, and so he stands back, one hand holding the door open, and gestures into the room. The Prince steps in and Jon gives one last look at Jory before he lets the door close.

“They've given such nice rooms to a thief,” Prince Aegon says, though his tone sounds bitter and he spits the word _thief_ as though it is an insult. “But you aren't a thief, are you?”

Jon does not know what to say and so he says nothing at all. Aegon's face is a careful mask and so Jon cannot tell what he knows.

“I was surprised to see my own sword in your hands,” Aegon says, eyes sweeping the room as if he wants to look at anything but Jon. “But when father didn't seem upset... and later, I found my sword right where I had left it in my rooms.” At this, his hand goes to the pommel of the sword resting at his hip and Jon can see the familiar gold and rubies and he is certain that if Aegon pulled it out, there would be etchings in a strange language along the blade. “How did you get your sword?” Aegon asks, though Jon suspects he already knows the answer.

“It was a gift from my father,” Jon says as steadily as he can. “For my-”

“Tenth name day,” Aegon cuts him off and for a moment the bored, impassive Prince is gone and replaced with a boy full of rage and Jon wonders if that is what his own face has looked like since he found out. Then it smooths out, but Jon can still hear it in his voice. “You'd think for a man who loves songs and poetry so much, he'd have more of an imagination.”

“Maybe he got a good price for having them made at the same time,” Jon says before he can really think it through, before he remembers that he is not sitting in the tavern making wry jokes with the men from his village and instead talking to a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. To his relief, Aegon snorts out a laugh, but it does nothing to ease the tension in the room.

Aegon's eyes are on him now, studying him, and Jon wonders what he is looking for. Resemblance to their shared father? Jon doesn't think he'll find any. Perhaps he is wondering who Jon's mother is, if he doesn't already know.

“What do you want?” Aegon finally asks, his posture still tense, hand still resting on the hilt of his sword (and Jon wonders if he is fast enough to get to his own sword, sitting in the corner, before Aegon has time to draw his. He wonders how well Aegon is trained – did he have his own Arthur?)

(And who is Arthur? If father is a King and mother is a Lady, Arthur _must_ be someone as well, and Jon feels another stab of hurt; it is one more betrayal, lies on lies on lies.)

“I don't want anything.”

“You came here and made a scene, got everyone's attention well enough. What are you hoping to get from this?”

“I don't _want_ anything,” Jon says again, frustration building in him (though he isn't sure that his words are true – he wants to go back to not knowing, he wants his father to not be the King, he wants his father to not be his father). “I... I was angry, I didn't really have a plan.”

“You came all this way with no plan?” Aegon throws back, full of accusation and Jon realizes that he needs to calm down because they are both angry now. He takes a deep breath before responding.

“I came to the tourney to see if I had any skill in combat. I didn't know father was... they never told me.” Aegon looks like he cannot decide if he believes this or not and so Jon continues. “Father only ever visited me on my name days, but he stopped coming around years ago. I've only ever met him ten times. Eleven, if you count yesterday.”

For a while Aegon is silent and Jon watches the storm in his eyes and he wonders what the Prince is thinking. Of his own mother? Of father's betrayal? Of the scandal, of the chaos a bastard Prince could cause? Jon may not know anything about the current royal family, but the Targaryens are hard to escape in history books and Jon has read enough about Targaryen bastards to understand it is never a peaceful thing.

“I do not want your crown,” Jon finally speaks again and though he is not certain of many things, he is of this. He does not want the crown, the throne. He does not want to lead a rebellion. He does not want to become a figurehead for those unhappy with the King, a rallying cry for those that would see him deposed.

“Let's hope that is true,” Aegon says and then, though it looks like he wants to say more, he does not. He stands there with his jaw clenched tight before giving a curt nod and turning to exit the room. Out in the hall, Jon can see Jory standing tense next to one of the white cloaks, who follows after the Prince as he leaves.

Jon ignores the questioning look from Jory and closes the door of his room again and he sits on the floor with Ghost and buries his face into the soft fur and tries to fight against a rising panic (he tries not to think of bloody battles and a bastard's reversed colors and crowns that do not belong to him).

* * *

He has fallen asleep on Ghost when Lord Stark arrives and Jon answers the door still brushing fur off of his new clothing. Lord Stark enters and the words die on Jon's tongue when he sees how tired the man looks. It is as if Lord Stark has aged years since last night; pale, with shadows darkening his eyes.

“Nothing has been decided yet,” Lord Stark says, as though he knows the exact question that has been burning inside Jon since this morning. “At least not in terms of...” Lord Stark sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “You are to go back home and once things have settled, we will discuss more what is to be done.”

_He does not want me_ , Jon realizes. _Father does not want me_.

“Alright,” is all he says, because all other words stick in his throat. He does not want a crown and his mere existence is a threat to the realm, but it hurts more than he wants it to, to know that his father thinks the same.

“I was hoping,” Lord Stark says and then clears his throat when his voice wavers just a fraction, “that you would allow me to bring you back personally.”

_(But Lyanna is alive?)_

“Of course,” Jon agrees. “I would like that.”

Too late, he realizes that perhaps his mother does not want to see Lord Stark. Perhaps she has no desire to meet her past. There is a reason she has kept hidden, a reason she has not ever told Jon that she has a brother.

_Too bad_ , Jon thinks in a flash of hot anger. She has been lying to him for sixteen years. She has denied him a family. He could have been a Prince or a Lord. He could have lived in a castle like Riverrun instead of a cabin in the woods. _You like the cabin_ – he pushes that out of his mind.

“Jory tells me you've already met my daughters,” Lord Stark says and Jon can hear the affection in his voice. “I heard they gave you some trouble this morning.”

“No trouble,” Jon begins, but he can see the smile tugging at the corners of Lord Stark's mouth.

“They're _always_ trouble. I don't know what I was thinking, bringing them both south on my own. I'm useless at parenting without my wife.” The smile is real now on Lord Stark's face, a wistful thing and for a moment Jon wonders if he loves his wife. It seems impossible, from all that he has seen so far of nobles. “This is her home, actually,” Lord Stark continues, “she wanted to come with us, but she is needed in Winterfell. Robb may think himself a man, but he still needs his mother and Rickon is very young, and after Bran's fall...”

“How many of you are there,” Jon says before he can stop himself and he immediately snaps his mouth closed. Lord Stark does not seem offended and instead he laughs – a small thing, but it makes something deep in Jon's chest ache. _Lord Stark would not deny any of his children_ , Jon thinks as the ache twists sharply.

“Just the five,” Lord Stark's smile falters and he says, "your cousins. I'll need to tell Sansa and Arya if you're to travel with us. I won't lie to them for Rhaegar's sake.” It is perhaps a treasonous thing to say, but Jon will not tell.

“I should like them to know,” he says quietly and he thinks it's true. He likes the little one, Arya, already, though he has only met her briefly. And Sansa... well, he is not sure what to think of her. He does not know how she will react to the news and he tries not to think about it at all.

“We'll be getting ready to leave within the next few days,” Lord Stark nods. “I'll see to it that we get you some more clothes. You have a horse of your own?”

“Yes, sir, he's stabled in town.”

“I'll have someone sent to look him over. We can always trade for a better one if he's unfit.”

Jon wants to argue that his horse is fine, but he does not. So far he likes Lord Stark, but he still has very little understanding of Lords and from what he has heard in the past, they are a fickle sort and prone to anger at being questioned. Lord Stark does not seem so, but Jon has only known him for a day.

“Before I go, do you have any questions?” Lord Stark is serious again. “I will try to answer what I can, but I think there are some things that perhaps you should hear from your mother and not from me, for I have only heard them from the King.”

There are a thousand questions he wants the answer to, but Lord Stark is right, the answers should come from others. This is all just as new to Lord Stark as it is to Jon, and so instead he asks, “what is the Queen of Love and Beauty? And what is a Florian?”

“Why do you want to know about the Queen of Love and Beauty?” Lord Stark asks and for a moment, it looks as though he has seen a ghost.

“Oh, someone mentioned it as the prize for winning the melee,” Jon hesitates, because he cannot understand Lord Stark's reaction.

“I see,” Lord Stark relaxes just slightly, hand coming up to rub at his eyes again. “The winner is given a wreath of flowers that he uses to crown who he decides is the Queen of Love and Beauty. Who he thinks is the most beautiful woman at the tourney, or the one he loves.”

“And a Florian?” Jon prompts, though he thinks he is not as sneaky as he hoped with the look Lord Stark gives him.

“I don't need to ask where you heard that,” Lord Stark sighs. “He is a hero in a story, one that my daughter is particularly fond of.” Jon can feel his face heat – he has been caught out and he suddenly wishes Lord Stark to be gone. To his relief, Lord Stark does not pursue the topic. “If you wish to leave your room, keep Jory with you. And do not tell anyone about your father, though I think you don't need the reminder. I will not tell Sansa and Arya anything until we have left Riverrun. They mean well, but they are still young and perhaps not so good at keeping secrets.”

With that, he lays one heavy hand on Jon's shoulder and stands there for a moment, as though he is studying Jon's face. Then a small, sad smile and a final nod and he is gone.

* * *

In the gardens, he finds all sorts of flowers and though he cannot remember what the crown looked like, he settles for the ones he likes the most and he plucks a few of them. He settles cross legged on the ground with Ghost at his side and Jory standing guard and he spends an infuriating amount of time trying to form the flowers into a circle, trying to tie their stems together, which only ends up crushing them. In the end, he throws his creation onto the ground in frustration.

_You know nothing_ , he hears in Ygritte's voice and he feels a different sort of anger flush through him. It is not the same anger that has been with him all week, but a new kind - he is frustrated and embarrassed and annoyed and he does not know why he is doing this. It was a stupid idea, and he a fool for entertaining it.

“Let's go back,” he says, though he cannot look Jory in the face and he feels his embarrassment climbing up his throat and into his cheeks. He stands up and begins to walk off and Jory follows, but Ghost does not and when Jon turns, he finds his dog still sitting, surrounded by crushed flowers. “Don't look at me like that,” Jon tries to keep his voice commanding as Ghost tilts his head to the side, and Jon wishes that Jory were not here to witness this. Ghost does not move and they stand in a stalemate until Jon gives in with a muttered curse and he stomps back to where Ghost is and bends down and picks up the last remaining flowers, the only ones he has not crushed in his brutish hands. “Happy?” he grumbles and Ghost seems to be, because he stands up and begins to head out of the garden.

Jon follows with a scowl and ignores Jory's grin.

* * *

He knocks on the door and a serving girl opens it and inside, he sees a circle of women and girls all sewing, except they do not seem to be mending clothing, they are working intricate patterns into cloth stretched across wooden hoops.

“I wanted to talk to Lady Sansa for a moment,” he tells the serving girl, though his voice is loud enough for the whole room to hear.

Sansa sets her hoop down with a smile and begins to rise, though a sharp throat clearing from a severe woman – Septa Mordane, Jon guesses – halts her progress. It appears as though the Septa will say something, but then Arya begins to loudly curse and complain of a pricked finger and this distracts the Septa long enough for Sansa to stand and make her way to the door.

Jon did not realize she would be with so many other women when one of the servants told him this is where she would be, and he knows they are all watching him, which does not help the nerves churning his stomach.

“I, um,” he begins, throat dry. “I didn't get a chance to...”

Sansa waits expectantly at the door to the room, eyes wide and too hopeful and Jon's voice falters. He looks down at the flowers grasped too tightly in his hands (he is crushing the stems, he can tell).

“Are these for me?” she asks in a whisper and he nods dumbly and holds them out to her. She takes them from his hand and brings them to her nose and inhales deeply (do they smell alright? He forgot to smell them, he hadn't even thought of it).

“It's not a crown,” he tries to explain, but the smile that lights her face erases every thought from his brain.

“It doesn't have to be,” she says and then she leans up and places a soft kiss on his cheek and he does not know what to say to that. Instead he says nothing and simply nods at her before turning away and walking as quickly as he can away from the room, passing Jory and Jory's infuriating smile.

“Don't,” he growls as Jory falls into step with him, Ghost trotting happily on the other side.

“Wasn't going to say a word,” Jory shrugs, but Jon can hear the laughter in his voice.

Jon is all too happy to get back to his room and shut himself inside with Jory _outside_ and he curses himself and the stupid idea of the flowers. He should not have done that, he doesn't know _why_ he did that. His father may be the King, but he is still only a bastard. He grew up in a cabin, not a castle. He has no business giving flowers to Ladies, even though she wanted them.

_She only wanted them because she wanted to be crowned at the tourney_ , he reminds himself. She did not want some bastard boy shoving half-crushed flowers into her hands, no matter how kindly she accepted them. He is no hero from a story, he thinks bitterly. He is no _Florian_. He is just a fool.

* * *

When they are due to leave, Jon is placed in the back with Lord Stark's men, nowhere near the front. He is glad for it, he does not think he can face Sansa again. Lord Stark does not travel with a grand party, but it is large enough that Jon can hide amongst the others and not call attention to himself. To his relief, no one outside of the Stark household seems to notice the thief from the tourney at all, though perhaps that is because he is no longer covered in muck and sweat and dressed in leathers for combat. Now he is cleaned and wearing the livery of House Stark and no one in Riverrun looks at him twice.

“Send Catelyn our love,” says a man standing at the front with Lord Stark, Jon can barely hear them speaking.

“Of course,” Lord Stark says and that is it, the party begins it's ride from the castle.

Jon should be feeling relief, for he is going home, but he knows it will be different now. He cannot go back and pretend this never happened and he does not know what that means for the future. There is the itch again to ride east (board a boat, leave everything behind) but he does not and instead he kicks his horse into a trot and heads out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry for the wait! I still have only a vague idea where this story is going, but I wanted to write some moody, daddy issues Jon being a romantic idiot, so this happened. Hope you like it!)
> 
> (you can also check out these moodboards made by vivilove and themistypoet (I am in love with the aesthetics on these!) [here](https://cellsshapedlikestars.tumblr.com/post/644933939204653056) and [here](https://themistypoet.tumblr.com/post/641198805941977088/his-left-hand-checks-for-the-hundredth-time-to))


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